This is the first in an occasional series of drabbles about my favourite Fourth Age family. Tales will not necessarily be in chronological order but all will involve the Prince and Lady of Ihtilien and their children, as featured in 'A quiet drift of petals'.
Here, for the first, the events of Eowyn's 38th birthday morning. For Annafan, who also has a birthday in November.
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"Remember, love, to act surprised."
Eowyn nods and smiles, sinks back down under the covers of their huge poster bed, stretching out her long legs to confiscate the warm space so hastily vacated by her husband.
Béma, it is too early. The air is chill, for the fire's coals have yet to be stoked, and Faramir, he of the laughing mist grey eyes and ruefully shaking head, has had no chance to put on a log, whispered this sage advice mere minutes after a hurried, barefooted investigation of the muted thud that echoed from down the hall.
Éowyn-the target of the dawn patrol- had held her breath and cocked an ear, hoping none of her precious little monsters had hurt themselves, but no wail rose up. Just a very faint but hurried call: "We're fine, Ada!"
'Bron. That was 'Bron, speaking in his best official reassuring voice, having picked up both the package and his little brother, Theomund. Neither seems to have taken much hurt (according to Faramir's intelligence), and so the little parade continues on, slowly, haltingly, making their way to her lap.
Why could none of them take after her? The Lady of Emyn Arnen is quite famous for her ability to sleep. Anywhere. Anytime. Ten hours if she can get it, although that in practicality, rarely happens. It has been her husband's habit of many years to bring her tea and a kiss (and sometimes more) as a wake-up call for she can ignore the crowing of the cock and the sounds of the estate going about its day.
She says she is making up for her years of watchfulness. He says she is dreaming up new schemes to drag the folk, grumbling and protesting, into a new and burgeoning Age.
(He may be right. Their own printing press, for botanicals and herbals, the odd announcement and even a history or two, is still setting tongues awag.)
Outside, the excited whispering is getting louder. However did the children manage this by themselves?, she wonders. The sun has yet to break over Ephel Duath's snow-dusted slopes and Gwinlith, their cheerfully early cook, has yet to rouse from her bed. Who stirred the kitchen fire? Who dragged bowls and plates down from their too-high shelves? Not Theo. His head barely reaches the scrubbed, battered tabletop. Elboron might oversee the fire but that leaves Finduilas, slender and willowy like her namesake, to climb the shelves and reach the crockery. Valar. She did not want to think about it. At least Faramir has a watchful eye on them now.
After several more minutes lazy half-dozing, Éowyn finds she cannot not fall completely back to sleep, and so she pushes up, pulls back the bed curtains and reaches for her housecoat to ward against the room's lingering chill. Slipping out of her sanctuary to add a log to the softly glowing coals is unappealing. Also entirely unfair. Faramir, born in balmy spring when the first flowers are in bloom, gets his birthday breakfast on the terrace-out-of-doors and followed by a long rambling hike around the farthest reaches of the estate. Eomer, golden and sun-kissed, has his in Urui, exactly nine months from the end of fighting season. Like many a child in the Riddermark, he is the gift of a joyous reunion after the Riders set aside their patrols. Not Éowyn. She was born in Mede, the month of wet and cold, sharp north winds and biting frost before the snows of Yule. A sign of ill luck to some, but not Eomund of Aldburg. He had been delighted.
"A mark of Bema's favour, 'Wyn. Makes you strong and hardy from the start."
This brings a wistful smile. Her memories of her father are mostly hazy but the prickle of his neat blond beard against her chin as she blessed him with a birthday kiss was there. As were the expertly feigned sleepy welcome words. "Gód ærmorgen, goldblóma." Golden bloom. So she had been for all their years together. That name, and the tradition of little ones treating byrðre and cénréd to breakfast in bed, had begun nearly forty years before.
It was a treat to continue with it now.
She pulls the soft velvet robe about her shoulders and sits straighter up. The sound of a commotion is clearly just outside their door.
"Careful Fin. Hold that steady!"
"I am!"
"No you're not. The tray is tilting. Give it to me."
"Bugger off 'Bron. It's fine!"
There is a gasp. It is all Éowyn can do to not snort out loud at her daughter's righteous indignation.
Elboron, superior as only an eight-year-old can be, is two years older than Finduilas, who likewise will brook none of his direction. They bicker constantly. Chalk and cheese are more alike than her eldest offspring; they happily descend into shoving matches at least once a sennight; events that habitually end with Elboron mucking out the entire stable and Finduilas confined to the study to mend the White Company's worn socks.
It is a toss-up who hates their punishment the more.
The one thing the two youngsters can agree on is the need to dote upon their little brother. Theomund, calm, sweet-natured, and very wise, is at times alarmingly a little more like twenty-two than two.
She waits for a longer moment, and, sure enough, a small cherubic voice pipes up.
"Ada, Fin said a bad word."
"She did, didn't she, Theo?" comes Faramir's warm, deep tone. "Most disappointing, as I know she excels at more complicated grammar."
Eowyn grins, can almost hear her beloved's eyebrow raise and her daughter's shoulders droop. Finduilas is brave, headstrong and entirely too impulsive: no amount of admonition by her stops the girl's more colourful expletives, but her adored father? All he has to do is look sideways.
This time the apology is a little faint. "Sorry, Ada."
"Thank you Finduilas. Now, Elboron, why do you suppose your sister felt the need to swear?"
"'I don't know."
"Are you quite sure, Elboron?"
There is heavy silence and a half mumbled response. "Well.. yes. No.. I mean. I didn't mean to boss. I just wanted things to be right."
"Well. That is the right sentiment, but perhaps an over enthusiastic application, hmm?"
"Sorry, Fin."
"Good. Now, shall we open the door and start the surprise?"
"Yes!"
The excited chorus sounds from right outside the door. Quickly, Eowyn schools her features into sleepiness.
"Happy Birthday Mama!"
The door swings wide. Elboron stands there, shoulders back and head held high, proudly sporting an armload of presents while Finduilas grips the handles of the breakfast tray. Both of them are in their nightclothes. Faramir leans against the door, smiling above their heads, eyes glinting. No doubt he will regale her later with what mess he found.
Theomund, relieved of his burden, excitedly bounces forward, scrambling up onto the higher bed from the bench. "I stirred," he announces proudly.
"He did," nods Finduilas, ceremoniously setting the tray upon the coverlet and leaning to grace her with a kiss. "We made you breakfast all by ourselves before even Ada got up. And Gwin."
"You did? What a wonderful surprise!" Eowyn beams and gives her a quick hug.
Elboron sets a colourful pile at her elbow and gives her a quick peck on the cheek. "And we brought you presents! One from each of us."
Theo, frowning, slowly counts each bundle off on a chubby finger. "But there are only twee?"
The bed dips as Faramir grins, sits, and plants a warm hand on his small son's back. "That's all right Theo. I will give Mama hers after luncheon."
Something about the roguish glint in his eye suggests it might come when everyone had a 'nap'.
"What is it?" asks Finduilas, turning her dark head to look between them both.
Too smart by half, her daughter.
Éowyn does her best not to blush. "A secret, oh nosy one." Faramir reaches across to tickle Fin underneath her arm, and that, is that. All three children launch themselves onto his back, tangling in a pile as they vainly fight to reach the one spot they know will work: behind his ear. Faramir twists and turns, agilely dodging until Eowyn has to pull the tray up out of harm's way.
"Careful!" she cries, but none of them pay her any mind. Faramir is laughing, fending off each assault; tossing Elboron bodily (but carefully) onto the carpet and prying Finduilas' fingers from the collar of his shirt.
The excited shrieks and giggling last until he collapses flat onto the mattress with Theomund pinned onto his chest. "Yield! I yield. You mother needs peace to eat!"
All three chefs suddenly settle down. Elboron pulls Theo into his lap and Finduilas sits decorously cross-legged beside her father's feet. Well well. Instant acquiescence. It really is a special occasion.
Eowyn smiles. Now that they are all sitting still she can see a smear of berry-red on Theo's check and a streak of soot on Elboron's arm. How had they accomplished the feat entirely unsupervised? She eyes the tray a little warily. There is a barely coloured piece of 'toast'; a pot of her own current jelly and one of butter. Lukewarm rosehip tea fills her favourite cup, which is perched beside a much tinier flowered teapot. A bowl of something thick and covered in cream and honey sits in the middle pride of place.
She picks up the spoon and dips it in. Porridge. Still warm and stirrable. Obviously, freshly made. That is impressive and a little worrying: last year Gwinlith had helped them make scones the night before.
Faramir sits up and sets his shoulders back against the headboard, fingering the pattern on the little china pot. It is Finduilas's, from her nursery playset. Last time Éowyn looked it was filled with curdled milk.
"Don't wait 'Wyn," he drawls, dropping an arm onto her shoulders, all too aware of her sudden hesitation. "Aren't you going to try it?"
The urge to stick out her tongue is strong. "Yes, of course."
Two small blond heads and one dark quiver in excitement. She takes a mouthful and gingerly begins to chew. It tastes…odd. Clumpy and glue-like, with some sort of gritty bits swimming in the topping. Bravely she swallows the stuff down and takes another scoop.
The second is no better than the first.
Had the oats not been rinsed? Eowyn wonders, laboriously grinding a sharp bit of husk between her teeth. Valar, it was truly terrible and like no porridge she had ever eaten. Coarser and rough, as if the oat flakes are twice the normal size.
A quick gulp of tea mercifully swishes the inedible residue down. She sets the teacup back and reslutely picks up the spoon.
It stills mid-air as she had an awful thought.
Oh Bema, what if they expect her to down the entire bowl?
"Do you like it Mama? It has honey just like you like." Finduilas' heart-shaped face is anxious.
She smiles a little wanly. Oh yes it has honey. Half a jar, judging by the smear of translucent yellow that runs throughout the milk. Her daughter, like her father, is a notorious sweet tooth, but Faramir would normally wolf down breakfast before he tastes much of anything. Food is fuel to Ithilien's Prince. It just goes down more quickly when it is sweet.
"It is lovely thank you, darling," she lies boldly and unreservedly to the three pairs of eyes who follow her every move. They have made an effort. And at least the jam should be edible. She reaches for a tranche of bread.
"Already cut," chirps Theomund, quite conscious that he is not to touch the kitchen knives. It was. Cut and stale, the day before yesterday's last piece and starting to dry out. Béma.
She looks askance at her husband.
"Haven't they done an amazing job?" he grins and digs his chilled toes below the blanket, blowing a kiss her way.
"Absolutely." Teasing rogue. He can tell how hard a time she is having choking the adorable and adorably awful fare down. Well. What's sauce for the goose….
She puts on her sweetest smile. "Here, my love. You simply must taste it. You love porridge."
There is a brief spark of panic on Faramir's handsome face as she ceremoniously passes a new heaping spoon of sandy sludge across.
She was being a little mean. Her husband did not, in point of fact, love the breakfast he had consumed every morning for nigh twenty years of Ranging. These days Faramir is most likely to scarf back a wedge of cold pie before the rest of the family arose—his endless appetite leads him to quite happily fend for himself, scrounging in the larder before Gwinlith shoo's him out. Makes what she terms a 'proper breakfast'. Eowyn almost groans at the thought. Fresh baked bread and preserves, bacon, smoked fish, cheeses and all manner of delicate pastries to go along with a hearty, creamy porridge.
On the bright side, if she can hardly force down the children's efforts she will still have space for more when they finally reach the breakfast room.
She flashes Faramir a sympathetic grin. "It is very sweet."
"Umm, yes. Just like these three." Faramir points the spoon at their eager audience. A small dollop of cream and grey plops on the whitework of their quilt. It is so stiff it does not spread beyond its landing spot.
Faramir is rather slow to pick it up.
'Stop stalling' she sends surreptitiously, biting her lip at the look on his puzzled face. 'It might even put hair on Legolas's chest'
'That bad?'
'Worse'
Manfully he takes a bite. And chews. And coughs, sputtering as a chunk of something catches in his throat.
Elboron quickly crawls over and thumps his red-faced father heavily on the back. "Ada, did it go the wrong way down?"
'Something did. But it wasn't oats!' comes Faramir's worried thought.
He grasps the boy's arm in gratitude and coughs again. "Yes. Thank you, lad, for your help. Perhaps I shall stick with tea."
He snares a water cup from the bedside and waits while Finduilas solemnly pours from the little teapot. Eowyn pulls apart the piece of bread and slathers on as much butter and jelly as she dares. Faramir, bless his kindly heart, essays the porridge again, chews very very carefully around something hard. He grimaces and turns away to spit into the spoon.
'What was it?'
He shrugs.
'Grit? Dried husk?' she sends.
'Mayhap. But nothing usually there.'
He sets the spoon down upon the tray. This will take some investigation. And extremely careful questioning. It would not do to upset the proud participants.
By way of a distraction, Faramir throws his hands out wide. "My arms are empty!" he announces loudly and Finduilas and Theomund practically fly into his hug. They settle in under his chin and he drops a kiss to each tousled head.
Over by the window Éowyn has mercifully finished her piece of bread. "Bron," she asks gently, half afraid of the answer she will get, "how did you make the porridge?"
She has stirred the gloop some more. The oddly giant flakes are studded with dark brown and tawny bits.
"Just like Gwinlith does," he replied. "In the pot above the fireplace."
"I stirred!" adds Theo.
"I know you did, sweeting. How very clever of you."
"At the table," Elboron is quite to note, taking up his place by the foot of the bed. He bites his lip and casts a worried glance her way, rubbing his hand at his nape. Her heart pangs a little. Both Fin and 'Bron know to watch for Theo, are aware of his unsteadiness, but Elboron is also old enough to catch the drift of her questioning.
He looks dispiritedly at the bowl. "Two parts water, one part oats. Just as she said."
Éowyn tries to smile in reassurance. "Then I am certain it was not anything that you did. We shall have to tell Gwinlith to empty out the crock. There are bits of something not oats mixed in."
"Oh."
"But it is a lovely surprise regardless."
"Thank you Mama." 'Bron replies, but his response is purely automatic. He frowns, eyes briefly dark like smoke, thinking hard. Finally he says: "But we didn't get it from the crock."
Eowyn sits straight up. "Why ever not?"
"We couldn't get it down," explains Finduilas. She crawls out from the circle of her father's arms. "It was up too high."
Bema's blessed horn. That was something of a relief. The rascals didn't try to scale the pantry cupboard after all. But then, where ever did they get the cereal?
She eyes her eldest with a quickly sinking stomach. "'Bron? What then did you do?"
"We tidied," he says, a little defensively.
The boy has his uncle's colouring: wheat gold hair and ruddy, freckled skin. It flushes all too easily, as Eomer's was apt to he'd done something wrong.
"That was thoughtful, dear," she nods and beside her Faramir smiles approvingly, for even if tidiness is not his skill, he approves of passing it to his son. "But sweetheart, where did you get the oats?"
"From Wyndfola's feedbag!"
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Thanks to Eschiziola and Wheelrider for encouragement and comments!